


open your throat

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Dacryphilia, Emetophilia, Inspired by like everything by quietwater, M/M, Omorashi, Papyrus is gross, Sans is really sad, Very much non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: swallow down his pride





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



   You love his eyes.  
   They’re not his _eyes,_ not exactly, technically his eye sockets, but you love them either way. His magic always formed those pretty little pupils that glittered when they were on you.  
   Oh, yes. You love his eyes.  
   But then you could sit him in your lap and feel around his mouth, and it would obviously discomfort him— he would squirm and try to push your hands away, but you shoved your fingers down his throat. He hates it— his pupils would dilate and little glistening tears would roll down his cheeks— he was so pretty when he cried.  
   His body would jerk, and he would heave a little and—  
   You always had to wash your clothes after.

  
   “Open up,” you say.  
   You love the color of his magic, too— such a beautiful blue, almost a purple, and here it is spread across cheekbones. He’s adorable. He hates it when you call him adorable, too; that only makes it cuter.  
   You smile when you pour the water into the little gap between his teeth and you’re obviously pouring too fast— he tries to gasp a little, then cough and swallow and you can _see_ it— you want that throat to close around—  
   Oh, it was already empty.  
   “Papyrus,” he says, and he already sounds sick, fingers quivering, “please stop this.”  
   His voice is really beautiful, too, but he talks too much.  
   You leave him to refill the glass and bring an extra one this time, place them on your little table decorated with cool figurines, and pull him roughly into your lap again.  
   He’d started crying— there are little scrapes on his cheeks where he wiped his tears away.  
   “Open up, now,” you say again, and he turns away.  
   You force his head back towards you. “What did I say?”  
   There’s that lovely tongue of his.  
   He gags before you even tip the glass against his teeth, and this time he swallows it all down with a couple big gulps and you really like imagining that he’s swallowing something else.  
   You run your fingers under his shirt, press them against his belly, stroke it when you take the other glass immediately after and push against his stomach as the water hits his throat.  
He coughs, jerks away and heaves a bit, he hates it— you shove your fingers down his throat again, “open your throat.”  
   There’s a strangled whimper that vibrates against your phalanges. You push and he’s coughing up that fluid all over again, looking sick as tears run down his face he’s so _cute_.  
   You rub his stomach and he hiccoughs, buries his face into his hands— it’s impossible that he still has some dignity left, so you take one and press it into his own mouth, choke him again and there’s more bile, spilling all over you both.  
   He doesn’t tell you to stop because he enjoys this, doesn't he?

   He’s the loudest thing, too.  
   You rub your fingers against his hips and he whines, his pelvis rolls up into your touch, fingers ghost across his pubis and he arches.  
   You bend over him and he latches onto you, and there’s a sick adoration in his eyes. He loves you and you love him and that’s all it’s left at.  
   He’s a cheeky little thing, really, because he tugs your wrist and sucks on your fingers, presses his tongue against them. He’s so excitable and you could make him vomit right now if you really wanted to, but you don’t.  
   Instead, you press your phalanges against that little sensitive spot in his mouth and he moans, his hips shift under yours. So needy.

   “Stop,” he gasps.  
   His magic is really cold, actually. It feels oddly _right_ with how it clashes against your own, hotter, and it ceases to drive him insane and make him writhe underneath you, especially when you use your tongue.  
   But then you press against his full stomach and he’s whimpering and he’s so _embarrassed_ , and you can feel the bit of fluid escaping that’s not the sweet kind of release that you’re usually tasting.  
   He sobs, a weak, wet little noise. You press harder.

**Author's Note:**

> ,,,,,,luckily this only made me sick to my stomach while writing, lmao. I wrote this in publIc--  
> I love quietwater lmao, this for u


End file.
